“Have I come too near the flywheel, that dark unknown powers are driving, and has it caught me in its whirlings? Would not one believe, that the reason must be lost with such things, when they cross the path of life? And yet I find myself quite well, withal: nay, it no longer seems strange to me that a Flea King should have sought my protection, and in requital have entrusted me with a mystery that opens to me the secrets of thought, and thus sets me above the deceptions of life. But whither will or can all this lead? How, if under this singular mask of a flea, an evil demon lurked, who sought to lure me into destruction, who aimed to rob me of all the happiness that might bloom to me in the possession of Dörtje? … Were it not better to get rid at once of the little monster?”
“That was a very pitiful idea, Mr. Tyss!” exclaimed Master Flea, interrupting Peregrine’s soliloquy. “Do you imagine that the mystery I have entrusted to you is a trifle? Should not this gift pass for the most decided proof of my sincere friendship? Shame on you for being suspicious! You are surprised at the reason, the mind, of a little despised insect, and that proves—don’t be offended—the narrowness of your education in science. I wish, in regard to the thinking instinctive soul of animals, you had read the Greek Philo, or, at least, the treatise of Hieronymus Rorarius, Quod Animalia Bruta Ratione Utantur Melius Homine; or his oration Pro Muribus; or that you knew what Lipsius and the great Leibnitz thought of the mental power of beasts; or that you were aware what the profound Rabbi Maimonides has said about their souls; you would not then take me for a demon on account of my understanding, or measure the spiritual faculties by the proportions of the body. I suppose, at last, you will come to the shrewd opinion of the Spanish physician, Gomez Pereira, who could find nothing more in animals than mere artificial machines, without thought or freedom of will, moving arbitrarily and automatically. Yet, no: I cannot deem you so absurd, and am convinced that you have long ago learned better through my humble person. Moreover, I do not well understand what you call wonders, or in what way you are able to divide into the wonderful and natural, the appearances of our being, which—in reality—are ourselves, as we and they mutually condition each other. Do not, therefore, wonder at anything because it has not yet occurred to you, or because you fancy you do not see the connection of cause and effect; that only proves the natural or diseased obtuseness of your sight, which injures your perception. But—do not take it amiss, Mr. Peregrine—the drollest part of the business is that you want to split yourself into two parts, one of which recognises and willingly believes the so-called wonders; the other, on the contrary, is mightily astonished at this recognition and belief. Has it ever occurred to you, that you believe in the images of dreams?”
“I!” exclaimed Peregrine, “My dear fellow, how can you talk of dreams, which are only the result of some disorder in our corporeal or intellectual structure?”
At these words Master Flea burst into a laugh, as fine as it was mocking, and then said to Mr. Tyss, who was not a little confounded,
“My poor friend, is your understanding so little enlightened, that you do not see the folly of such opinions? Since the time that Chaos melted together into plastic matter—it may be a tolerably long time ago—the spirit of the universe has formed all shapes out of this existing material, and from this come also dreams and their images. These images are sketches of what has been, or probably of what is yet to be, which the soul rapidly puts together for its amusement when the tyrant, called body, has released it from its slavish servitude. But here is neither time nor place to refute you, and bring you to a better conviction; perhaps, too, it would be of no use whatever to you. One thing only I should like to explain.”
“Dear master,” cried Peregrine, “speak, or be silent, as you think proper; do what to you seems best, for I plainly perceive that however small you may be, you have deep knowledge and sound understanding. You compel from me unconditional confidence, although I do not quite comprehend your figurative modes of speech.”
“Learn then,” resumed Master Flea, “that you are very strangely implicated in the history of the Princess Gamaheh. Swammerdam and Leeuwenhoek, the Thistle, Zeherit, and the Leech-Prince, as well as the Genius, Thetel, are all striving after the princess, and even I myself must confess that, alas! my old passion is reviving, and I could be fool enough to share my sovereignty with the false fair one. But you—you, Mr. Peregrine, are the principal person, and without your consent, Gamaheh can belong to no one. If you wish to understand the more particular connection of the whole, which I myself do not know, you must speak to Leeuwenhoek about it; he has found it out, and will certainly let out much, if you will take the pains, and know how to question him.”
Master Flea was about to continue, when a man leapt from the bushes in boiling passion, and flew upon Peregrine.
“Ha!” cried George Pepusch, with frantic gestures—for it was he, “Ha! faithless, treacherous friend!
